A Shadow Flits Before Me
by Verity
Summary: William makes contact with the spirit world; Buffy returns to life. Goes AU in "After Life."


**A Shadow Flits Before Me**  
Verity

_With thanks to **arantzain**, **angearia**, **rahirah**, **bottomfeederela**, & **parcae_lj**, most helpful betas and advisees._

Note: Florence Cook and Katie King are real, historical people. Insofar as possible, all details concerning them are accurate, although I fudged some of the later dates.

"A shadow flits before me,  
Not thou, but like to thee;  
Ah Christ, that it were possible  
For one short hour to see  
The souls we loved, that they might tell us  
What and where they be. "  
- Alfred Lord Tennyson, Maud

(1)

_2001_

Spike only figures it out at the last moment; maybe it's not the last moment, but it's the last for him, because ever after, he's _failed_ — he had a chance, all along — "_can I help?_" — but he didn't listen, or forgot. The knife goes deep into his side. He fights but there's no hope of winning, and _Dawn_, and he's falling, and he finally knows:

_he opens the door_

_he opens her_

_let me go, just let me go_

_you can't stop him_

No.

He lives his failure over and over in his head: imagines a hundred ways he could have saved her, saved them; a thousand times he should have known her, known that bright lilt of her voice from so long ago. But it's to no avail. She's asleep in the ground, and it's high summer now. He wipes Dawn's sweaty forehead while she dozes on the couch, brings her pizza and sodas dripping with icy dew. They watch old movies in front of the TV while the witches sleep upstairs until he ruffles her hair and pronounces a growly good-bye. It doesn't matter whether they watch _Rear Window_ or _Casablanca_ or _Wild at Heart_: they only ever see one thing.

Every night, he sits at her grave, notebook and pen in hand. But she never answers.

(2)

_1879_

He is at his writing desk, and outside, the sky is that strange purplish grey unique to London's twilight. It is early June, and the setting sun tells him that it is growing late. Although he is a man of means, he has responsibilities for the household that mean he must be early to bed and early to rise. Still, some nights he lingers over his writing, though his mother worries in the morning at any signs of unrest.

Last evening he attended the Tredcroft ball, a weeknight he would consider wasted, but for a glimpse of his muse. It's the height of the season, and Cecily, Miss Underwood — how he longs for her to be _his_ Miss Underwood — looked no less lovely then than she has all these long months. She paid no mind to him as she trod the dance floor, never lacking a partner, but William prays that some day, he will win her heart with his pen, and keep her in furs and unflagging devotion.

He turns back to tonight's verse; he has been lingering over this one, hesitant, waiting for the words to suggest themselves, as they often do. Cecily was resplendent last night in pale green silk, rising up from the lace that cupped her bare shoulders like a nascent lily from its bud. Oh, but he cannot hope to do her justice!

_My lady, she is pure and white,  
True flower glory of the firmament.  
Like those stars which gleam glitter bright,  
Her beauty beams transcendent._

_O, the brightness of the sun!  
By which on her I may rest my gaze  
She  
If only her_

_The moon cannot—_

His hand stills on the page. There is queer feeling coming over him, but he makes no move to rise, undress, go towards the bed. Instead he dips his pen in the ink well, and watches, as if in a dream, as it moves across the paper of its own accord.

(3)

_2001_

Spike tries to keep his tone light, to keep his voice from trembling. "Say, aren't you leaving a hole in the middle of some soggy group hug?" That's right. Keep it together, for the girl. He's not the one who should be faltering here.

"I wanted a little time alone," she says, sitting down on a crate.

"Oh. Right then..." He gets up and heads out into the alley, but the sunlight cuts off his retreat. For a moment, he raises a hand to the forbidden heat.

Buffy speaks, behind him. "That's okay. I can be alone with you here."

"Thanks ever so." At once, he's grateful and irritated. See what she does to him. Less nervous, though, now.

"Right".

She's quiet for a while, and he looks back at her. "Buff? Slayer? You okay?"

He looks at her. She's turned away from him, looking out at the sunlight slanting through the alley. "Buffy, if you're in-- if you're in pain." He stumbles over the words. "Or if you need anything... If I can help you..."

"You can't," she murmurs dully. Her fingers play with the curved hem of her shirt.

"I know where you were," he says. Her hands still. "Not where they think, pet. I know."

She turns toward him, face pale. "How?"

The sun is so bright, and he wants to pull her into the shade, back with him, where it's safe, where he can keep her whole, or at least no more broken than he is. "I know enough of heaven," he says, at last. "No other place could hold you."

(4)

_why are you calling? so quiet here. let me rest._

_take care of dawn. that's enough._

_you did enough._

_'til the world ends. _

(5)

_2001_

"I don't believe you," she says, the next day. She follows him home after patrol, back to his crypt, where he's the only monster she has to face. Now she braces her slender frame against the wrought iron railing. "How would you know?"

"You _know_ how I know." He pours himself a glass of whiskey; his hands are shaking, like he's that schoolboy again. "You bloody well _know_."

"No." Her heartbeat quickens, belying her words. "I guess you just made a good guess. Go Team Spike, rah rah." She half-heartedly shakes imaginary pom-poms, then closes her eyes and sighs. Even in the flattering candle light, she looks tired and overly thin.

When he takes in her pinched face, he softens. "A long time ago— I was human then. Stupid. Young. You— you came through. You spoke to me." Saying the words makes it seem all too real. He can still remember the heft of the pen in his hand, and his mother chastising him for his inevitably besmirched cuffs.

Buffy's mouth tightens, and she rises from the railing. "I don't know why you're saying this to me. It isn't true."

She turns to leave, but he catches her arm. "Look, it doesn't matter anyway," he says. "They shouldn't have torn you away. There was nothing you could have done. You should have rested."

"Leave it alone, Spike." When she meets his gaze, her eyes are so tired. She shakes her head, and pulls away.

(6)

_he opens the door_

Can I help?

_no, no you can't. let it go. it's all over._

_you can't stop him. but you tried. _

(7)

_1880_

More than a month passes before he connects these epistles to what happened when he was a barefaced schoolboy and his mother enamored of the notorious Florrie Cook and her Katie King. The passage of time has nearly erased that night, so far had it receded into his memory. But William recalls it well enough now.

He is thinking of that voice, again, the voice of his promised love, which lingers in his ears. The call sounds there, clear as day despite the intervening years; he wonders if it has crept into his soul, hidden somewhere in his heart. The voice is not Cecily's (though he might once have hoped) but that of some other creature, whose words themselves were soft and strange, their inflection alien to him. When the words pass through his pen, he hears her whispering them into his ear and feels again the heady rush of excitement and overwhelming shame of that moment.

_Shall I call you Katie? _, he asks her, but this is one of the many questions that she does not deign to answer. So she remains nameless, formless in his head, aside from the loopy scrawl of her hand.

(8)

_2001_

They're on an otherwise uneventful patrol weeks later when she kisses him. "Stop following me," Buffy says, not turning around, but she doesn't really mean it. Her stake is still in the air, and she can feel the dust settling on her face, taste it in her mouth. She wipes her mouth with her free hand.

"Never," Spike says, casually. No one is so easy with her any more except him; she is absurdly grateful. He comes up behind her, very close, and she has to step around Frederick Mueller, 1895-1921, to avoid him. Something about this overwhelms her, and she sits down ungracefully on Fred's wife. He stares at her in that way of his, and she lowers her eyes. "Anything wrong, pet?"

She lets her legs dangle loosely over Greta's epitaph. "Nope. Nada. Just a regular old Sunnydale day."

"Why won't you talk to me?" He hangs back, then, and gives her ample room to observe his wounded puppy expression. Better for him if he'd kept up the stare, really: under his gaze she felt, naked, vulnerable, curiously aroused. Spike touches her arm, and she jumps; her spine prickles with awareness. "Won't tell anyone. Told you. Keep my promises, I do."

"You do," she admits grudgingly. But she's not ready to give him what he wants.

A lifetime ago, she told Angel, "When you kiss me, I want to die." That was her heaven.

When she kisses Spike, she wants to disappear inside him. She wants to go deeper and deeper until she remembers nothing and no one.

He tastes like her grave.

(9)

_you keep calling me. I know you hurt. let me go. _

You will not leave me, and I do not know how to send you away. Furthermore, you must have some trouble; otherwise, how could I so disturb your spirit?

_leave me. _

Never. I'll never leave you.

_then let me sleep. _

(10)

_1879_

"Bring me another pillow, dear," says his mother. She is sitting close to the fire screen; he can see the flame flickering behind it, turning the bronze into a burnished silhouette. The first chill of early fall has hit, and William takes care to keep the house warm; his mother has grown frail since the summer, and her health is a constant concern. He's quick to bring her another cushion, and a shawl besides.

Once he has Mama settled comfortably on the settee, he retires to his favorite chair and applies himself to his cup of tea. He adds cream and sugar while his mother starts in on her embroidery. All is quiet save the crackle of the fire for some time.

Jennings brings in the evening paper, and Williams unfolds it gingerly. Despite his efforts, the paper crackles noisily, and he resigns himself to disturbing Mama's concentration. She lifts her head and sets down her eyeglass, peering at the front cover. "Is that Florence Cook I see on the front page? Read it to me, William."

He reads the opening paragraph, announcing the return of Miss Cook (now Mrs. Corner) to society after nearly five years of retirement, and skims the rest of the article. "The prevailing attitude held toward Mrs. Corner seems to be that she is a fraud," he summed up for his mother. "The newssheets are predictably humming in anticipation of further scandal."

"Hmph." His mother dismisses this argument with a wave of her hand. "There were pictures, and a scientist studied her, you know." She pauses briefly to smile. "She knew John. She knew things that only one who dwelt in heaven could know. I believe in her."

The other hand that held his pen ceased to write some time ago; he has tried to put it out of his mind, to distract himself with the very real and present wonder that is Cecily. Still, he cannot let go. Mama's graying head is bent over her embroidery once more, but he cannot return his attention to the paper. He sighs, and rings for Jennings.

"I'm afraid I must retire, Mother. Please forgive me."

The tender affection in her countenance fills him with guilt. What a trial he is to her, preoccupied with his verses, his impossible dreams. His spirit promises.

(11)

_2002_

Her skirt is hiked up to her waist, anyone could see them from the road, and she doesn't care. She doesn't want to think about her body, or that place where she had no form, no name, just peace. Yet this is as close as she can come to acceptance: letting him touch her, letting him make love to her, letting him know her secret, the awful truth of her.

The worn denim of his jeans is soft against her bare thighs. "My goddess, my queen," Spike whispers as he enters her, "Let me praise your name forever and to the ages of ages."

Buffy doesn't know what all that means, but she doesn't feel as empty when he says it.

He knows everything about her, so she lets him talk for her: whisper dirty nothings in her ear, tell her what she wants, how she's thinking about taking him inside her even though she's on break from work and trying to drink her espresso nonchalantly in front of her coworkers. He knows exactly how to touch her. She makes it a game: if he wants her to make noise, he'll have to work for it. This time, when she comes, she cries out, and Spike kisses her mouth closed, swallowing her screams.

Afterwards, he swallows her tears. "Love you," he says, tells her over and over, running his fingers through her loose hair. She won't listen to those words most of the time, but just then, when she's tired and still boneless with grief and pleasure, she lets him say them, almost doesn't mind it.

"What's happening to me?" she says later, when they're looking up at the stars from the roof of his crypt. "I don't understand." These aren't the right words, but she doesn't have them yet, or lost them. Maybe, _what happened_, but she's not ready to ask. Not ready to be awake.

As if he hasn't heard her, Spike says, "That's Ursa Major near the horizon, and Ursa Minor a little farther up and over to the left. Don't really see how they look like bears, but there you are. Blame the Greeks."

She turns her head to look at him; his eyes are fixed on the sky, and he's not touching her, except to hold her hand. In an abrupt flash, she gets it: her return to life is never going to get easier, just more bearable with time. She'll always have to fight, even when her heart's not in it. But she doesn't have to be alone.

Buffy remembers. She realizes, now, that she's remembered all along.

(12)

_1880_

It seems like a game at first. They go through the household staff before he brings Dru to meet his mother. Mama is so confused, so lost. But William knows he has to do this. As he sinks his teeth into her neck, he thinks: I must take care of her.

After he dusts his mother, he tells Dru to wait downstairs. In an unusual act of mercy, she complies. He moves mindlessly up the old oak stairs, and down the hall into his room. Everything looks the same as it did a few days before, when he left for the party; his papers lie undisturbed on the desk, and he gathers them up; he takes the small chapbook he published the previous year, too. He can see her handwriting on some of the papers, and he shuffles them to the bottom.

Dru stands by the fire with him while he burns the papers and the libellum. Whatever happened, it was all a lie: the medium, his hand, the pen and paper. There's but one true love for him, and no heaven.

Ashes to ashes, they go; dust to dust.

(13)

_2002_

Buffy keeps her secret for a month, maybe more, before she tells the Scoobies and Dawn where she spent her summer vacation. They don't take it well. She comes up with an excuse to patrol as quickly as possible.

Now: "You remember me," Spike murmurs into the curve of her collarbone.

"No," she protests, weakly, and then sighs, "_Ahhhhh_," as his fingers slip beneath her plain cotton panties, the last barrier between them.

They're in his bed, in his crypt, and she's leaning up against the headboard, spread out before him, and he's opening her up to his touch, his cool fingers pressing into the hot fire of her cunt. It feels like she's been waiting forever for him to become this heady flame sneaking up her spine; she needs him, needs to feel real, solid, alive. And just so, he's sneaking into her now, and she pulls him forward to muffle a moan in the curve of his shoulder.

All it takes for her to come, that first time, is the way he takes her breast into his mouth, suckles her; bites gently into that rich, ripe Slayer flesh.

Much later, she wants to get and go home, but her limbs are limp and lazy with sated desire. He's pulled her snug to him, and she can feel him hardening against her. "Every night, I saved you." His breath is damp and gentle in her ear.

"I know," she says, so quietly that only he can hear it.

(14)

_1872_

Miss Cook climbs into her cabinet and is secured to her chair by means of cord and some manner of binding tape. Her fiancé draws the curtains, and bids them to be silent. Many in the audience gathered in Mrs. Dashwood's drawing room lower their heads reverently. The minutes past sluggishly, and William steals a look at his mother. Her eyes are closed, face serene: she is a believer. William closes his again, and tries to remember his father, for whom she is here. He can never summon up his father's face, but he remembers his burnished cane, and slight limp; he'd seen action in India many years past. "My boy," he would say, and ruffle William's hair fondly. Then the day came when he no longer met William at the nursery door, and his image was relegated to photographs and the unfinished portrait that Mama had hung in the library.

She stirs, now, at his elbow, and William is suddenly alert. A presence has entered the room, ethereal and gleaming in the soft of the room with its gas turned low. He cannot tell whether she has any likeness to Miss Cook or not; her pale veil is drawn across her face. On his other side, David Howard leans in to whisper, "It is _Katie King_," as if William was some ninny who could not read the morning papers himself. He studies her carefully for any signs of ectoplasm, but she appears more spirit than substance, gliding across the room from her cabinet. She does not address the room at large, but moves slowly among them, stopping here and there to share a personal confidence. His mother is one of the last she comes to; she leans down to speak into his mother's ear, but despite his efforts, William cannot hear what she says.

Then she turns to him, this Katie King, who is not a lady, but a spirit, and was not a lady when she was alive besides. She reaches out to touch him and her hand feels heavy on her shoulder. He can't help be conscious of her breasts, hanging over him, and his body responds against his will. She smells like heaven. Or how heaven should smell.

Katie King's hair is red, and flows unbound over her shoulders. "She sent me to you, although she does not know it," she says to him in her low voice. "She whom you shall love. She waits for you." Then she whimpers plaintively. When she speaks again, her voice is higher, with a cadence he does not recognize. "It's all wet. I can't wake up."

His mother is looking at him strangely and he flushes with embarrassment. "I don't understand you, Miss, forgive me," William mutters, pulling back against his chair and staring beyond her at the cabinet, where the medium sits; Miss Cook, whose hands rested so neatly on the arms of her chair as they tied her in. His heart thunders in his ears.

But the spirit is not listening to him. She lifts a hand to his face, and he cannot help return her gaze, looking up into the darkness of her shadowed eyes. "Where did I go?" Katie King asks him. "Where did I go?"


End file.
